Red Heart Tattoo (10 page)

Carla sat on one side of Roth, and Max on the other, both holding one of his gauze-bandaged hands gingerly in theirs. Blood seeped through the bandages and from scrapes and abrasions on his face and forehead. Roth ached all over. His hands hurt really bad, but he had taken nothing for the pain, although Carla had tried to force aspirin on him. He was going to wait his turn. He was going to be patient. He was hoping to hear news—any news—about others who’d been brought in.

“You need to see a doctor,” Carla said, blotting the cuts on Roth’s throbbing head with a clean towel.

“They’ll get to him,” Max said grimly. “A lot of kids hurt worse.” He stared at the mass of people filling the room. “Place looks like a frigging war zone. What the hell happened? I heard there was an explosion. What exploded?”

Roth said he didn’t know. Secretly he had suspicions. Not much that could explode in the atrium unless someone
wanted
something to explode. From the corner
of his eye, he saw both uniformed and plainclothes cops at the doors. Several men and women were discreetly making the rounds of the people in the waiting room with small notebooks in hand.

He was staring at the floor when he heard a woman’s voice above him. “Are you Stuart Rothman?”

Startled, he looked up. He recognized the imprint of Morgan’s face on the woman, although she was blond, not red-haired. “Roth,” he said. “Everyone calls me Roth.”

“I’m Paige Frierson, Morgan’s mother. One of the EMTs said you pulled my daughter to safety.”

His insides went watery. “Is she going to be all right?”

“She’s still unconscious. Her father’s with her in radiology waiting for a CT scan.”

“But she’s—she’s going to be okay?” he asked hopefully.

Paige’s eyes filled with tears. “She’s a fighter by nature.”

Roth knew this to be true.

Max stood awkwardly, wobbling slightly on his bad leg. “I’m Roth’s uncle and this is my wife, Carla.” Carla nodded solemnly.

“Roth’s a hero,” Paige said. “He pulled several kids to safety. You should be very proud of him.”

Max glanced at him and Roth went hot all over, feeling like a microscope specimen. “I was running late,” he said. “I’m not a hero.”

Max half laughed. “I guess that was a good thing today of all days.”

Carla patted his arm. “You risked your life for others. That’s the definition of a hero.”

“Thank you,” Paige said. “There aren’t words to tell you how grateful we are.”

Roth smiled feebly. “What was left of the staircase would have fallen on her. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“I’ll let her know when she wakes up.”

Paige was stepping away when another woman came up to Roth. She was short, had thick black hair and was dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, a police shield displayed prominently on her waistband. “Are you Stuart Rothman?”

Roth’s pulse picked up. Looking at the police shield made him nervous. He didn’t like cops and cops didn’t like him—his tattoos and ear studs always marked him as potential trouble to them. “Yes,” he said. Not wanting to be on more familiar terms with the woman, he didn’t add,
Call me Roth
.

“Detective Sanchez,” she said, flipping open her notebook. A man joined her. “My partner, Detective Wolcheski.” The heavyset man nodded. Sanchez said, “Reports say that while everyone was running out of the school after the explosion, you ran in. True?”

“Yes,” Roth said suspiciously.

“Brave thing,” Wolcheski said.

“Why did you do that?” Sanchez asked.

“I—I don’t know. Kids were screaming. I knew they were hurt. Thought I could help.”

“And you did help,” Wolcheski said. “EMTs said you pulled five kids to safety.”

“I wasn’t counting.”

“You know anything that might help us figure out what happened?”

“I don’t know what happened. I was late for classes. I was at the front steps when there was a loud boom and then everybody was screaming and running out of the building.”

“Don’t you know what happened?” Max asked. “You’re the cops. Haven’t you got a clue yet?”

The two detectives looked at each other. “Who are you?” Sanchez asked.

“Max Rothman, his uncle. His legal guardian.”

“Looks as if someone set off a bomb,” Sanchez said.

“A bomb!” Carla said, putting her hand to her throat. “Who’d do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Wolcheski looked back down at Roth. “You have any thoughts about who it could be?”

“No.”

“But you ran inside while everyone else was running away.”

“What’s wrong with doing that?”

The two detectives looked at each other. “Do you know that sometimes people who create disasters play the hero afterward?” Sanchez said to Wolcheski. “They wreak havoc, then waltz in and save the day.”

Max, who’d resumed his seat, shot out of his chair again, his face red and angry. “Now, you two wait a minute! Are you accusing my nephew of causing this disaster?”

“Not at all,” Sanchez said innocently. “We’re just saying—”

“Where do you get off saying such a thing to Roth?”

Sanchez threw up her hands. “No harm meant. Just an observation from FBI profilers. We want to get whoever did this.”

Roth felt sick to his stomach, scared. All the air seemed to have left the crowded room, and the noise became a drone, like buzzing bees around a hive. Were the cops looking to blame him? He’d had nothing to do with what had happened. He was a bystander, a kid in the right place at the wrong time.

Suddenly Paige Frierson swooped back into the mix. “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.” All eyes turned toward her.

“And you are?”

“Paige Frierson. I’m an attorney.” She turned toward Max. “Do you need an attorney, Mr. Rothman? Because I’m a very good attorney and very savvy in juvenile-law matters.”

“Do we?” Max asked the two cops.

“Your call,” Sanchez said, her brown eyes looking hard as steel.

Max studied the cops for a minute before nodding. “Maybe we do.” He turned toward Paige, who held out her hand. Max shook it, sealing the deal to have her represent Roth.

Paige stepped in front of Roth’s chair, wedging her body like a shield between him and the detectives. “I’m advising my client to keep silent at this time. Until I’ve had a chance to talk to him at length.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Sanchez said, handing Paige her
business card and peering around Paige at Roth. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear, Mr. Rothman.”

Roth saw Max’s fists clench. “My nephew did nothing but help.”

Paige put her hand on Max’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Mr. Rothman. I’ll take it from now on.”

In his chair, Roth didn’t relax. His “heroism” had turned into suspicious behavior in an instant. He knew the cops would start investigating him. And he knew that he wasn’t, as Paige had assumed, a juvenile. He was eighteen. And even though he’d done nothing wrong this time, he might, because of circumstance, very well be in for a world of hurt.

“Here, drink this.” Apocalypse handed Executioner a glass containing an inch of amber liquid. They were in Apocalypse’s living room, alone in the empty house.

“What is it?”

“A shot of my father’s finest Kentucky bourbon. To celebrate our victory.”

Executioner took the glass, hands shaking so violently that the alcohol almost spilled.

“What’s your problem?” Apocalypse’s hands were rock steady. “You never drank booze before?”

“Beer,” Executioner said. “Adrenaline rush. I’m trying to get over the rush.” That part was a lie. Executioner felt like vomiting and was grateful that Apocalypse backed off from making any snide remarks.

“Drink it down. Has a calming effect.”

Executioner did, despite fiery throat burn and watery eyes. The stuff tasted awful. “You drink this much?”

“Whenever I can sneak it. Dad rides herd on his liquor.”

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

Executioner had to admit that the hit of strong alcohol did calm nerves. The sharp edge of fear from what they’d done that morning was growing fuzzy. “We did pull it off, didn’t we?”

“Like pros.”

“Now what?”

“Now we wait and see how it washes out.”

“But you’re sure no one will know it was us …?”

“Just so long as we keep our mouths shut. You get that part, don’t you?”

Executioner saw a look of coldness in Apocalypse’s blue eyes. “I get it.”

Apocalypse raised a glass and clinked it against Executioner’s. “Till death do us part.”

M
organ awoke in the dark, her heart hammering and raw fear clogging her throat. Her eyes were tightly bandaged, and she couldn’t open them. She cried out and a hand slid over hers. “It’s all right, honey. I’m here,” her mother’s voice said. “Right here. You’re in the hospital, and you’re safe.”

“What—” Morgan rasped.

“There was an explosion at your school. You have a concussion and bruises from flying hunks of concrete, but no broken bones. Do you remember anything?”

Morgan whimpered. Pictures flashed in her mind. Sitting on the wall. Laughing. Talking. A flash of white light. “Some.” Her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears. “When?”

“It happened yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday!”

“You’re alive. Happy Thanksgiving.” Her mother smoothed Morgan’s cheek, kissed her forehead. “Thank God.”

“My eyes …”

“Your eyes were damaged in the explosion. Chemical burns, a lot of debris from the concrete got into them. That’s why they’re covered. The ophthalmologist, Dr. Harvey, has applied antibiotic creams and thinks your vision will be fine, but for now, for a while, he wants to protect your eyes and keep them covered.”

“How long?”

“A few weeks.”

Morgan went cold all over. “Weeks?”

She felt her mother’s fingers travel down her arm and grasp her hand. “You’re going to be all right. That’s what’s important.”

“What kind of explosion?”

“They’re still investigating.”

“I—I don’t want to be blind.”

“You won’t be. This is just until you heal.”

“I want to go home. When can I go home?”

“Maybe in a few days. Your scans and X-rays indicate no internal damage even though you were sitting so close to the blast. Your doctors just want to monitor you for a while longer. Keep track of your vitals. You have pain medication in your IV so you won’t hurt. If you want more, if you want anything, just tell me.”

Morgan’s brain was spinning from the flood of information. “Trent … my friends. How are my friends? We
were all together. Then there was a light … a noise … like a roar….”

“Shhh,” Paige said soothingly. “Don’t think about that now. Just rest.”

Morgan felt her mother tuck the bedcovers around her, cocooning her into the bed. “I don’t want to be alone,” Morgan cried.

“Not to worry. Your father or I will be with you every minute. Your hospital room has a sleeper chair that stretches out into a bed. One of us will be here as long as you’re in the hospital. I promise. If you wake up scared, just call out and we’ll be awake in seconds.”

Morgan felt like a baby. Her senses were jumbled, everything unfamiliar except for her mother’s soft perfume. “You won’t leave me.”

“Never. Now get some sleep.”

Morgan was already feeling the effects of her exertion and the numbing medicine. She was suddenly exhausted. She sank into a pillow, her mother’s hand wound tightly around hers. Paige’s hand was an anchor, a lifeline to a world that Morgan could no longer see. She was adrift on a sea of closing darkness. As she drifted off it struck her that her mother hadn’t answered her question about her friends. She tried to ask it again, but the words were tangled around her tongue and sleep was pulling her backward into its dark arms.

Morgan heard someone whispering her name softly into her ear. “Trent?” she said anxiously. “Is that you?”

“Shhh. Let’s not wake your mother. She’s asleep in a chair, real close to your bed.”

Morgan’s heart leaped. “Oh, Trent, thank God you’re with me.” She fumbled one hand in front of her.

“I’m right here,” he said, catching her hand. His was as cool as the air.

Relief and gratitude welled up inside her. Tears dampened the bandages on her eyes. “Oh my God, I—I didn’t know what happened to you. Are you here in the hospital?”

“Down the hall.”

“Are you all right?”

“Some scrapes and bruises, but I’m good.”

She opened her arms. “Hold me.”

His arms wrapped around her and she leaned against his chest, but he still felt cool to her skin. “Are you cold?” she asked.

“This whole hospital is cold.”

“I’m just so glad you’re here with me. Do you know what happened?”

“Not really.”

“We were at school. You were hugging me,” she whispered. “I—I think I saw something under the staircase. Can’t remember …” Feeling a headache building, she squeezed her eyes, which left them stinging and burning beneath the bandages.

“You hurting?” he asked, concern in his voice.

“A little. I keep trying to remember something.”

“Don’t force it.” She felt him withdrawing. “I better
go,” he said. “I don’t want to get caught by the nurses either. Maybe we should keep this little visit our secret, so we don’t get into trouble.”